on Sunday morning, and promises me to finish the affair in four days; so I shall know in a little time what I have to trust to. It is nine o'clock, and I must go study, you little rogues; and so good night, &c.
30. Morning. The weather grows cold, you sauceboxes. Sir Andrew Fountaine, they bring me word, is better. I will go rise, for my hands are starving while I write in bed. Night. Now sir Andrew Fountaine is recovering, he desires to be at ease; for I called in the morning to read prayers, but he had given orders not to be disturbed. I have lost a legacy by his living; for he told me he had left me a picture and some books, &c. I called to see my quondam neighbour Ford (do you know what quondam is? though) and he engaged me to dine with him; for he always dines at home on opera days. I came home at six, writ to the archbishop, then studied till past eleven, and stole to bed, to write to MD these few lines to let you know I am in good health at the present writing hereof, and hope in God MD is so too. I wonder I never write politicks to you: I could make you the profoundest politician in all the lane. Well, but when, shall we answer this letter, N. 8, of MD's? Not till next year, faith. O Lord bo but that will be a Monday next. Cod's so, is it? and so it is: never saw the like. I made a pun the other day to Ben Portlack about a pair of drawers. Poh, said he, that is mine a all over. Pray, pray, Dingley, let me go sleep; pray, pray, Stella, let me go slumber, and put out my wax candle.
31. Morning. It is now seven, and I have got a fire, but am writing abed in my bedchamber.
